I noticed young that my voice could move a room to tears. It seemed like a kind of medicine — something that could carry people from grief to relief.

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That noticing set the course. I quit piano lessons early so I could find my own harmonies instead of someone else’s, and I’ve been chasing that sound ever since — part confessional folk poet, part theatrical performer, always improvising toward the truest word.

Raised on Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Jewel, and The Beatles, I write songs that live between craft and confession — clever, but never guarded. My influences run deep and wide, from Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Kate Bush, Regina Spektor, Tori Amos, and Gillian Welch to the virtuosity of Béla Fleck and Bobby McFerrin, and the classical sweep of Debussy and Tchaikovsky. Early on, people compared my voice to Ella Fitzgerald, Kate Bush, and Jeff Buckley. I’ll take it.

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Americana Jazz, if I had to name it. Not jazz, exactly — but always improvised, always chasing the freedom inside whatever genre I’m in. The music arriving now leans alternative pop and confessional folk-pop, while what’s coming next moves toward Americana folk. Call it a through-line of raw honesty wearing different clothes.

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Every song goes through a long discernment — rewritten until it’s true, not just good. Some arrive in twenty minutes flat, like “Love in War.” Others take fifteen years, because the story needed that long to be ready to be told. In the studio, I’m chasing the same thing every time: raw, improvisational energy — caught, not tamed — inside an arrangement beautiful enough to hold it.

But what I’m really after is the moment the room stops watching and starts feeling — together. I write the songs, and then I open the channel and let them keep writing themselves, live, with whoever’s in the room. That’s the part I can’t fake and won’t give up.

People leave my shows alive, uplifted, emotionally cracked open — and hungry to make something of their own.

My next album lives somewhere between New Orleans, Nashville, and LA.